


Addicted to Hell

by alex_kade



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Angst, Augments, BDSM, Bond is trying to be stoic, Dark Fetish, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gore, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Q is a badass, Rey is the naughty boy, Smut, Superpowers, Violence, but they play a part, i'm talking like exposed guts and stuff, it's a mission thing, not Bond or Q 'cause they wouldn't, seriously don't read this if you don't like graphic violence, used for sexual kinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5553311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_kade/pseuds/alex_kade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond is sent on a mission to befriend the head of what is thought to be a secretly corrupt corporation, but instead of finding a secret drug-trafficking or weapons-trading ring, he discovers something that twists even his hardened stomach into knots. Now caught deep in the heart of a dangerous prostitution circuit, can he escape with his mind and body intact?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He Calls Himself the Quartermaster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092329) by [Only_1_Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth). 



> I cannot stress enough how much you do _not_ want to read this if you can't handle gore! I was gifted with a world in which characters can heal quickly from even mortal wounds, which to a whump writer is basically a challenge to make the injuries and pain that much more brutal. I'm introducing Rey (my version of 008 from the Wingfic AU I dabble in) to take the willing brunt of most of the violence so as to be less disturbing to the Bond fans, but 007 is not going to come out of this unscathed. He is a Deathless, after all, and Truth broke him so splendidly in her origin universe that I can't help but keep that up. 
> 
> Also, because Q takes too much abuse, I'm gonna have him come in to save the day a bit on this one. He needs to be a badass sometimes. And I've played heavily with Techno characters in other such power universes before, so I'm kind of an expert at such things... You'll see. ;)
> 
> As per usual, thanks to the magnificent and wonderfully talented Truth for providing me with such fun sandboxes to play in.

Kaleb barked impatiently and with more than a modicum of concern as he ran little circles around Bond's legs, the fact that he was being so very vocal the surest sign of the Morph's distress imaginable. Despite that, Bond didn't offer up his usual stream of soothing words for the dog, his focus narrowed down to the body in his arms that had been roughly bundled up into a bloody sheet so people on the streets wouldn't completely panic at the first sight of him. Luckily they weren't in a very crowded area of the city, and with the late hour serving as his cover, there weren't any further altercations he had to deal with as he finally reached the open door of the car Q was impatiently standing beside. At the site of it, he _did_ let out a small groan.

So did Q.

"Really, Bond?" he sighed in his usual soft, mildly-annoyed tone, but his eyes were clearly pinched with a mix of relief and worry as he tried to keep up the appearance of normalcy. "I come to personally extract you in a brand new Tesla, and now you're going to get blood all over the seats."

"You couldn't pick one of the more conspicuous models?" Bond fired back, right on cue, frowning a little at the bright blue vehicle his Quartermaster had apparently absconded with. His snipe was lame for a comeback, he knew...then decided it wasn't even really a comeback at all. It was just an honest complaint. The agent, for once, actually wanted to blend into traffic, which would be hard to do in a car like that. People would notice.

Still, he leaned down in an attempt to settle his fragile burden into the back seat, anyway, but nearly overbalanced in the process. With all hopes of keeping up a grounding banter gone, Q quickly moved in to help, mindless of the blood that was now smearing onto his clothes. For all the trauma it had caused in his past, blood was now something that the Quartermaster hardly flinched at anymore; he couldn't after having fallen in love with a man who was both a double-oh agent and a Deathless. Red, it seemed, was a color he had become acquainted with far too often.

Q barely had a chance to move to the other side of the car in order to slide Bond's parcel the rest of the way in before the agent was painfully bending himself into the seat, one hand wrapped around his midsection as the other carefully lifted one end of the covered body to settle it onto his lap. Then, without warning, he flipped the cloth back to reveal a young man whose torso looked like that of a special-effects dummy on a zombie movie set. His entire midsection had been ripped clean open - not cut with the fine blade of a surgeon, but literally torn into and stretched apart to reveal a mass of dark, mangled, knotted organs underneath. The sight of it nearly made Q gag.

"James," he said slowly, his voice a near whisper once he was able to find it again. "I know you worked very hard to get him here, but I think he might be-"

"He's not," Bond spat back, but Q knew that the heat in his voice wasn't directed at him. It was directed at the people who had done this to the boy, and to the agent, himself, who hadn't been able to prevent this atrocity from happening.

Anger aside, though, the denial would not be healthy in the slightest. Bond was clearly not doing well, himself, and if he wanted to heal faster, he needed to sit still and stop-- _Jesus Christ--_ stop trying to arrange the boy's organs back into place.

Q caught his partner's gore-slicked hand, pulling it back a bit, wanting to be doing anything right then but playing the bad guy, but sometimes harsh words needed to be said in order to better focus on the priorities. "007, there are clearly... _parts_ missing. Several, from what I can tell. I don't think even a Deathless..." He glanced up into Bond's eyes and hated himself even more for causing the helplessness he was seeing amidst the clouded blue. Gentling his voice further, and reaching over to touch James's cheek, he finished the horrid business. "He's gone, James. He's gone. Now let me tend to _you_. Please."

Q wasn't sure if it was the logic that finally kicked in, or his begging tone at the end, but after several agonizing seconds Bond finally gave him a curt nod and settled back into his seat. Q closed the door and came back around to slide himself through the front passenger door, impossibly maneuvering his body so that he could perch on the center console facing the back of the car. Kaleb jumped into the driver's seat beside him, but didn't seem to make any move to transform back into a human. He didn't need to. With a blink of the Quartermaster's eyes, ones that were now suddenly shining with that subtle blue glow that always came over them when he was logged into a machine somewhere, the remaining doors closed and the car started on its own. If Bond could see it behind the Technopath, he'd notice that the screen built into the front console was now flashing different images, views of the road around all sides of the car as it pulled away from the curb and seemed to drive itself. 

"Q, are you...?" He let the question fall, already knowing the answer. Surprising Bond with his constantly-improving abilities and level of genius wasn't really a surprise anymore.  _Of course_ Q could drive without having to touch or even look at anything, the act of doing so no more than an aside thought as he busied his hands with more important things.

"I did choose a fully electric car with a built-in computer for a reason," Q told him matter-of-factly before gently tugging Bond's arm away from his midsection, letting out a small hiss of displeasure in the process. By the small coil of intestine peeking out from between the tatters of James's shirt, it seemed the agent hadn't quite escaped the horde of metaphorical flesh-hungry zombies, himself. With a grimace, Q began to undo the few buttons left on the ruined shirt with one hand while he reached into the passenger seat beside him with the other, pulling forward his small bag of medical supplies. Bond wouldn't need any of them to heal, of course, his body already working to repair the damage, but in cases like this, ones that involved injuries of a particularly graphic nature, he seemed to heal faster and without using as much energy if he had a little outside help with the process. Waiting for organs to shift back into place on their own took a lot out of a guy, but if Q put everything back where it should be and bandaged the wound shut, then all Bond's power would have to worry about was completely sealing the muscle and skin back together. It would be as simple as closing up the deep slash of a knife (which, Q realized, was still very serious to most people's standards, but to Bond it would be little more than a paper cut), and far less draining.

James said nothing during the process, only wincing here and there as he idly ran a hand over the bleach-tipped-brown mess of bloody hair that still rested on one of his knees, the boy's head just out of the way enough for Q to work over without needing to move him.

"James," Q called out softly, and waited for his partner to actually look at him. The man clearly needed a distraction right now, even if it was to be a painful one. "Tell me what happened."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of it all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time! *does the flashback dance*
> 
> There isn't _direct_ gore in this chapter, but definitely highly-disturbing mentions of it, so all warnings are still in effect. 
> 
> And there's angst. Because angst.
> 
> And Q! With awesome new Q gadgetry!

The mission was a "Chateau."

It was what MI6 had taken to calling those that took several months, upwards of a year sometimes, of preparation before it could be ready to hand off to an actual agent, "aging" it like a fine wine before it could be opened for tasting. Why? Because when the organization was after an individual like Gushiken Akumi, the heiress and CEO of Hi-Zen, one of the current fastest-growing tech corporations in the world, patience and heavy precaution were a must. Akumi was watchful and intelligent, if not a bit paranoid (and she had every right to be following her father's assassination at the hands of a rival company), which meant that pushing things too quickly or faltering even one step would blow any chance MI6 had at getting someone into her inner circle.

So it was that Q had been crafting an alias to hopefully catch Miss Gushiken's attention for the past nearly-seven months, initially just mentioning the alias's name here and there in boring corporate affairs as a man new to an inheritance of an unexpectedly large sum of money who was now looking to invest. "Richard Sterling" had almost been a joke then, someone to potentially abuse and toss aside once he'd been liberated of his rather generous funds, but it wasn't long before it became apparent that Sterling wasn't as clueless with finances as he was thought to be. Q left an impressive trail of account activity that proved the invented billionaire knew  _exactly_ when and how much to invest in promising new ventures, and also when to cut his losses (which were always minimal) and pull out. It soon became a bit of a game for large corporations and small start-ups, alike, to reach out to the elusive investor, hoping to snag his attention even if only for a little while, for if Sterling became interested in a company, so did everybody else.

When the name had been built up enough to require a physical body to play the role, 007 had been assigned the task mostly because he was generally always on the same wavelength as Q, and since Q had been the one to predominantly play the part of Sterling in the online world for all those months, it would be a rather smooth and easy transition for him to hand the role over to his trusting partner. So, Bond became Sterling when the alias needed a face, when it became necessary for the man to appear at varying exhibitions and business conferences, casually making his rounds and engaging in boring conversations made only slightly better by the fact that Q was in his ear coaching him in what to say the entire time. It was a side job, really, all part of the aforementioned aging process that Bond could carry off in between his more standard active missions. Show up, look good, act charming, make some business deals, then leave. Essentially 007 was getting paid good money just to attend parties and social functions, so Q didn't believe he had any right to complain about any of it. Being bored for a few hours was far better than coming home with half his blood on the wrong side of his body, as far as Q was concerned.

It wasn't until Sterling had finally captured the attention of some of Hi-Zen's management team that the stakes grew higher, and with their mark finally in their sites, Bond was officially put on the Gushiken mission full time. 

"You know how much I hate Los Angeles," 007 grumbled as he stepped off the plane at LAX, finally having received a formal invitation to visit Hi-Zen's home branch in the United States.

Q's sigh was more than audible through Bond's earpiece. "You're in California where it's twenty-two degrees in the middle of January, Bond. I rather envy you, myself. I had enough sweaters on this morning just to leave the flat that I looked a bit like that kid in  _The Christmas Story._ "

Bond grinned at the reference. He'd been appalled when the holiday season had come around and he'd discovered that Q hadn't the slightest idea that the old classic even existed. James wasn't the biggest Christmas fanatic, himself, but he couldn't say that spending it curled up on the couch with his boyfriend, laughing at the ridiculous old film wasn't the perfect way to celebrate it. There may have even been hot cocoa involved. With marshmallows. But he would deny it if anybody asked.

"Yes, well," James continued, pretending he wasn't smiling even though he was pretty certain that Q could hear it in his voice, "I'd rather suffer the ugly sweaters than the constant traffic and having to make small talk with the natives. Everyone has an agenda here. You can't trust the whole bloody lot of them."

"Says the man who makes his living out of lies," the Quartermaster snorted. "And my sweaters aren't ugly."

Anything James might have said in return was cut off as he smoothly greeted his welcoming party, saying his hellos both in Japanese and in English for the benefit of those members of Hi-Zen who had come to see to him personally. Whatever shady dealings Gushiken had going on outside her business in the tech world (and they knew she was involved in _something_ peculiar based on the large, untraceable deposits to her secret accounts that would appear out of thin air), no one could say the woman didn't have impeccable manners and respect for her guests. Sending anyone lesser than her top executives to greet Sterling would have been a great dishonor, a notion that Bond could appreciate even when dealing with someone who was potentially working with the criminal underground. 

The hotel suite Hi-Zen had booked for him wasn't half bad, either. In fact, it may have been one of the better places Bond had stayed in, the building having just recently been built in the hills overlooking the Malibu coastline. Even he had to admit to feeling a bit less aggravated now that he was out of the thick of the LA area, and wouldn't have to be back in it until his return flight home. Hi-Zen Corporate was up in Simi Valley, about a half hour north of his hotel, so he'd be able to avoid the general chaos of the city that he hated with a passion. Being around that many fake people put him on edge, his mind too accustomed to always looking for the angle people were trying to play, so when he was confronted with a whole city of individuals trying to gain god-knew-what from everybody else, it was a bit of an overload.

Malibu, on the other hand, was full of the rich and entitled, the ones who had already played the game and made it out the other side. Snobs were people that Bond had a much easier time dealing with, when they were no longer desperate and eager to gain any edge available. He didn't like them, but at least he could trust them to be nothing more than the pompous "aristocrats" they made themselves out to be.

He could also appreciate their taste in hotels.

"Set me up so I can take a look," Q instructed, clearly amused by Bond's sudden shift in demeanor from irritable to fairly enthused.

"Already working on it, love," 007 fired back as he worked to plant his Quartermaster's little Chameleons in every corner of the suite, the tiny technical components altering themselves to blend into any surface Bond stuck them on the second he put them in place. Satisfied that he had every angle of his guest quarters covered, he gave the word to Q to turn them on, and watched the Chameleons come alive, each one sending out a faint beam of green light at they scanned over their immediate area, drawing data in and processing it before they launched into their next function, which was to send new data back into the space they'd just mapped. 

James grinned in anticipation as said new data took tangible form in the middle of the living room, a perfect holographic image in the pleasant shape of his boyfriend...one who most definitely was  _not_ wearing a sweater. Instead, he was dressed in a well-fitted suit consisting of sleek, black slacks, a black jacket that showed a subtle checkerboard pattern when the light hit is just right, and what appeared to be a silk dress shirt in a forest green color that hinted towards a shade of blue. It was unbuttoned at the collar, and there was no tie to speak of, giving the fine suit a touch of appreciated informality.

"You're drooling a little, James," Q smirked.

Bond snapped his jaw shut with a nearly-audible click. "I thought you said..."

"Oh, I am most definitely sitting quite comfortably in one of my so-called ugly sweaters." His holographic form walked in a smooth glide towards the picture window where he could gaze out at the setting sun. "Lovely view," he stated casually before turning back to James. "But as I am currently inside the network, I can take on whatever appearance I want, and I chose to take on this one."

007 blinked stupidly, if one could ever call an expression on the face of a trained assassin "stupid."

"But...why?" he asked, staring at Q like a starving man suddenly presented with a piece of prime steak.

"Because you can't touch it," the Quartermaster replied primly, a wicked grin on his face. "Think about this the next time you choose to insult my attire."

If Bond had been sitting at a table in that moment, he most likely would've been planting his face straight into it. Multiple times. It was easy to forget just how cruel the thin, young, unassuming Technopath could be, even when James so-often found himself on the wrong end of his acerbic bite. He really needed to remember not to aggravate the man.

"Q," he said instead, his voice low and husky in the face of a temptation he could not have, "I will buy you an entire sweater factory if I come home to you actually wearing that suit."

"This suit would cost more than your entire pension for this mission," Q waved dismissively. "There are better things to spend our money on."

Bond shook his head, barely refraining himself from reaching out to stroke his fingers down the silken collar. If he tried, his touch would only find air. "Can't really think of any," he muttered, his eyes roving up and down Q's body as if imprinting every inch of him into his memory.

Q, for his part, simply rolled his eyes, though it was clear by his soft smile that he was rather enjoying the effect his image was having on Bond. "James, there'd be no point in buying it if I'm only going to be in it for five minutes before it winds up in a heap on the floor."

Bond shrugged with an impish grin of his own. Clearly he had no problem with that concept.

"Ugh, you're incorrigible, 007," Q huffed, and with a wave of his arm, traded out the suit appearance for his usual attire of bulky cardigan, very nearly losing his cool aplomb at the sudden pout that took over Bond's entire being. He pushed back the humor, however, knowing they wouldn't have much time before Sterling would be called on again. "Now, let's discuss strategy, shall we? One of the members of your greeting party, William Kindling, that's the one you should be aiming to get closest to. He seems to enjoy less formal settings, making him an easy target to befriend. Once you are firmly within his inner circle, it should allow you easier access to Gushiken and whatever it is that she's been hiding to bring in the questionable funds."

Bond sighed at the change in atmosphere from flirty to professional, but he acquiesced readily enough to his responsibilities. Make friends with the advisor, gain Akumi's trust, and if she was indeed engaging in the sorts of illegal activities they suspected her of, take her down (along with whoever she was working with). Simple enough instructions, and the sooner he followed them, the sooner he could get home and ravish Q in that beautiful suit.

~~~~~~~~~

007 never made it that far.

It took two weeks. Two weeks of meetings and touring Hi-Zen and attending fancy dinners and generally schmoozing his way into a friendship with the outgoing Billy Kindling before Bond got deviated from his original mission. He was going out with Kindling for the evening in what should've been the final act of sealing a full-trust friendship, one that nearly lead him to gain audience with Gushiken, herself, had everything not gone completely awry.

Kindling, as it turned out, was a secret connoisseur of the BDSM circuit. It was something he had hinted at while trying to find what activities Sterling might be into, and recognizing it for what it was - a more intimate means of gaining trust with the man - Bond latched onto the subject with subtle grace until he found himself being invited to Billy's personal favorite weekend club. Secreted away on the outskirts of Simi Valley, the entrance to the club was hidden beneath a private casino where the high rollers of the upper class could mingle in privacy away from those who couldn't afford to even be in the same building as them, let alone in the same room sharing a gambling table. Billy showed an insignia ring to a guard manning an employee door, and lead Bond down to the dirty underbelly of what had become one of California's most high class cities. The club, itself, however, looked anything  _but_ dirty.

Bond followed Kindling to a posh little booth on one side of a bar lounge that held an aesthetic to match its high-end clientele. With its real, red velvet table cloths, diamond-trimmed candelabras, and a selection of beverages that probably would've put the price of Q's suit to shame, the establishment looked nothing like the style of club that Bond was used to seeing. In fact, not even the clients seemed to fit into the typical BDSM scene, all of them still wearing finely-tailored suits more prevalent at a ritzy gentleman's country club than in an entertainment scene.

"You should see the look on your face right now," Kindling joked, then leaned in close to explain how, exactly, things played out at  _Club Poison._ "Doesn't fit your mental image, does it? It will, though, when you get to the right rooms. You see that curtain over there? What's going to happen is, when you're ready to pick your poison, as they say, you're going to order a spider bite from the waitress-"

"Detestable drink," James frowned.

"I know. That's why it's the code drink. No one who comes here would  _actually_ order it."

Bond grinned and leaned over in return, resting his chin lightly on the backs of his fingers. "Logical. So, you order a spider bite, and then what? Someone comes to escort you through the curtain where you're then allowed to...look over the merchandise?"

Kindling laughed outright at the question. "Merchandise. Ha! I guess you could call some of them that if you're the take-ownership-of-a-person type. I take it you're not into playing sub, then?" He waited as Bond shook his head. "Alright. That's good. I mean to each their own, but I never understood the sub mentality, myself. Anyway, here the 'merchandise' is called a specialist. Keeping things professional and all. So when you get escorted through the curtain to choose your specialist, you're going to see three more curtains in front of you. The escort'll leave you alone to choose, and no one out here can see your preference, so no judgement on anyone. The curtain on the left is for the subs, so you want to avoid that one. The one on the right is for the Doms, so if that's your regular thing, go right on through. The available specialists will be inside, guys and gals, so just take your time picking what you like, and once they show you to your private room, that light on the wall up there will go off to signal that it's all clear for another client to come through. You can change into whatever you like in there, they have something for everybody."

James nodded, taking it all in. It was a rather efficient, highly privatized system by the sound of it, which was probably important to anyone who was concerned about their image. With the group of business professionals, politicians, esteemed doctors, and others like them frequenting the establishment, a slip in image could be devastating to their careers. They would all keep their presence in such a club a secret from the world at large, but beyond that, anything could be used for blackmail if the wrong information got out.

A waitress came by to take their drink orders (her style of dress keeping up the appearances of being in a tasteful establishment as opposed to a sex club), after which Kindling seemed intent on changing the subject to some new vehicle tech that Hi-Zen was in the midst of working on. He didn't get far, though, before James interrupted him, again leaning in to signify that the subject of conversation was something of a more sensitive nature.

"The third curtain," he prompted, and at Billy's confused expression, continued on with, "You said there were three curtains beyond the first. One for subs, one for Doms, so what's the third?"

"Oh!" Kindling exclaimed. "That's, uh...for special cases, the 'lethal poison,' so to speak. You catch my drift?"

James furled his brow. "I'm afraid that I don't."

At this, Billy leaned impossibly further across the table so that his lips were almost to Bond's ear. "This is one of the few clubs in the world that'll cater to the dark fetish folk. You know, the ones into the hardcore sicko stuff. The snuff people."

Bond managed to keep himself from jerking back with a start, but couldn't quite prevent his eyes from widening into surprised circles. A snuff circuit was most definitely not what he expected to stumble into during this outing, and he was torn now between what to do with the information. The club was _not_ his mission, not even remotely, but if what he was hearing was correct, people were paying this place to get away with actual murder. Or at least manslaughter, dependent upon the willingness of the victims. It wasn't exactly something that Bond, in good conscience, could just let go of, mission or not. And the fact that there were apparently  _more_ of these establishments out there that catered to the fetish...it was nothing short of appalling.

"Hey, hey, it's not what you think," Billy was quick to assure him as soon as he pulled back enough to see the look on his new friend's face. "No one actually dies here or anything."

"So it's just a role play scenario," Bond concluded, letting out a relieved breath...until he saw the hesitation on Kindling's face.

"Nooot quite." Billy seemed uncomfortable with the subject, which at least earned him a couple points in Bond's book, but not many. Whatever was going on behind curtain number three, the man wanted no part in it, but the fact that he'd still choose to get his kicks at  _Club Poison_ while it was clearly running some form of questionable operation behind the scenes made him a far less moral person than 007 wished to be in acquaintance with, especially once he finally decided to fill in the blanks. "The lethal poison specialists are Deathless."

~~~~~~~~~

Looking back on it, it was probably at that moment that Q should've pulled Bond off mission, or at least immediately told him that he would send someone else to deal with the club while James kept up his cover as Sterling. However, in a rare moment of thoughtlessness in the shock of what he'd just heard in his agent's earpiece, he couldn't properly come to either of those conclusions that might've prevented what happened later. Instead he stayed as silent as he had been throughout the conversation, breath held as he waited to see how James would react to the news that some of his kindred were being used as sex toys for those whose morbid sadism reached well beyond the levels of even the most abusive practitioners of unsafe BDSM. Part of him, he realized, the dark part that sometimes still sought violent retribution for what he had endured at the hands of Silva and his men, was secretly willing Bond to go in there and just tear the whole place apart. The other part of him, however, the more rational side was telling him that they didn't have all the facts just yet, that for all they knew, these Deathless had actually signed on for the task being asked of them. They could be no different than the subs who signed up for brutal care, or an exotic dancer who chose to go home with clients after a show. This type of sexual activity they were being faced with most definitely was not legal in any form, but if it was consensual, then dealing with it could wait until a later time.

It was James's voice cutting into his thoughts that made Q realize he probably should've said something, anything, in response to guide his agent, but knowing Bond, he probably would've just done whatever he wanted to regardless. "I'd like to see that, I think," 007 murmured.

Kindling puffed out a surprise laugh. "That's your prerogative, Sterling. Gotta say, though, I didn't quite take you for the type."

"Oh, I don't believe I am," Bond correctly smoothly, "but that doesn't mean I'm not a bit curious. To be that close to death without having to experience the permanence of it, I can see how that might appeal to some. It may very well be too much for me to handle, but I think a small peek behind the curtain couldn't hurt."

Now Kindling was chuckling in earnest. "Alright. Don't say I didn't warn you, though. If it's too much and you want out, just tell your specialist and they'll get you set up with someone else." There was a pause in conversation as the waitress brought them their drinks, then Billy was continuing with a respectful awe. "I knew I'd like you, Sterling. You've got some balls on you, I'll tell you what. That's something Akumi really appreciates in an ally."

"Well then, she's going to _love_ me," Bond replied, and Q could hear the shark's grin on his face. 

Good. He hadn't forgotten about the mission, then. Not that the Quartermaster expected him to; he was a professional, after all, but still. Whatever was going on with Bond's fellow Deathless behind that curtain...

Ignoring his own disturbed thoughts for a bit longer, Q listened as Bond smoothly worked Kindling into setting up the meeting with Gushiken. The second everything was settled, though, the agent was signaling for the waitress and ordering that spider bite drink. He was told to wait another moment (Q assumed for the aforementioned light on the wall to signal the all-clear), then with a cheerfully-supportive comment from Kindling, 007 was escorted through the curtain.

"Did you get all that, Q?" he whispered once he was alone, standing in the limbo area between the first curtain and the three choices that stood before him.

"I did, James. Well done on securing a meeting with the target."

007 paused as if he were waiting to hear something else, but when nothing more came from his Quartermaster, he took that as his cue to continue on with what he was doing. There was the slight sound of cloth being moved aside as Bond pushed his way through to his hallway of choice.

Yes, thinking back on it, Q would forever be kicking himself for not acting like the professional MI6 operative he had supposedly become, instead thinking only as the person he had originally been expected to be. That night, Q, for once, let himself simply be an Augment, wanting to take care of his own. And he was silently sending in Bond to do it.

~~~~~~~~~

Bond didn't know what he had been expecting once he'd stepped through the second curtain. A dim hallway lined with so-called specialists, perhaps, eyes hollowed with drug addiction and a deprivation of the soul that tended to be apparent on workers of a sexual nature (particularly ones who'd been forced or blackmailed into the job). It should have been no surprise, however, that he found himself in another luxurious sitting room, the walls and benches of the booths lined all in the same red velvet as the outer lounge with crystal chandeliers dimmed low to set a mysterious atmosphere. There were only a few people milling about, some chatting pleasantly with one another, others sitting alone enjoying a drink, all finally dressed in the typical styles of leather-on-sleek-skin that Bond had been expecting to see once he'd entered  _Club Poison,_  but that had been absent up until now. They watched James with an almost bored interest as his eyes scanned over them, none of them overly eager to jump at the chance to take on his persona of the well-paying client, but also not looking tense or afraid in the slightest. It was...odd, like walking into a shop at the mall that employed only uni students who would smile politely at customers as they walked in, but would make no real moves to help said customer unless asked to. There was no sign of distress on any of their faces, something that both confused Bond while also mildly relaxing him. At least none of them appeared to be there against their will.

"First time?" 

Bond turned to see a young man approaching him, all polite grins as if he were the helpful manager of the uni-employed mall shop. He was a pretty thing, a little on the short side, but with a well-toned body that could just be seen through the dark black mesh of his shirt. The top had an interesting cut, completely covering his torso and arms, but designed with holes cut into the shoulders to show some skin and the muscle definition there. He wore leather black pants to match - not obscenely tight but snug enough to reveal the curves of his legs and arse - and buckled punk boots that would be easy to slide off his feet when the time called for that. He also wore just a touch of black eyeliner, accentuating his gold-green eyes and the little flecks of amber that danced within them. With his bleach-tipped hair styled with just enough gel to hold a purposefully-mussed-up look, and the shadow of stubble that ghosted across his otherwise-youthful face, Bond could see how he'd make an easy catch to anyone who would be interested in bedding young men. A boy, really, younger than Q had been when Bond had first met him.

Bond slapped on an abashed little smile. "Is it that obvious?" he asked in reply to the boy's greeting.

"It always is," the specialist shrugged, "but no worries, we'll ease you into it. Just tell me what your poison is, and I'll find you a match."

"My poison?" James furled his brow. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"You know - guys, girls, for starters. You're obviously a Brit, so would you be more comfortable with someone from your side of the pond, or something more exotic, or maybe you want to try your hand at offing one of us stupid Americans? That's a joke, by the way, unless you don't want it to be." He smirked in a harmless fashion, but there was an odd glint in his eye that could've made the comment go either way. "Then there's your preferred method - choking, stabbing, shooting, beating, electrocution, full impalement, tribal sacrifice - whatever you want, we've got someone for it. And don't be shy about it. We've seen it all around here."

Shy? Bond was anything  _but_ shy. He wanted to vomit with how casually the kid had just rattled off murder techniques with the same thoughtless air as listing off available items at a farmer's market booth. He kept himself in check, though, offering the lad an uncertain shrug as his gaze continued to flit around the room, wondering over the killing methods that each of the men and women specialized in handling.

"All so young," he couldn't help but comment, albeit a bit under his breath.

"Do you want something older?" the boy was quick to ask. "We have others, if you want to look. Consider everyone out here a...display model. Most people go for the younger crowd, but if you're uncomfortable with that-"

"How about you?" Bond interrupted. The kid seemed friendly enough, and was clearly capable of answering any questions the agent might have in regards to...all of it. He was an obvious choice, considering they had already made their acquaintances, so why start over again with someone new when he had someone in front of him who was perfectly willing to talk?

The boy flashed a grin that was just on the edge of patronizing. "I'm flattered, really, but-"

"-you don't go for old men?"

Bond expected the grin to fall off the kid's face, maybe to be replaced by an apologetic panic that the store manager in the agent's mall shop analogy would wear if he found himself accidentally insulting a customer. Instead, the grin transformed into a coy smirk as the boy stepped ever-closer and ran his hand up Bond's arm, pausing at his bicep where he gave James an appreciative squeeze.

"Oh, no, babe, you're  _just_ my type. It's just that I'm Pick of Poison's Foxy Phoenix. If you knew the name, you'd know that you probably can't afford me, let alone know what to do with me. I'm expert class only. I don't do virgins."

For the first time since he'd passed through the curtain, Bond heard Q make a noise in his ear - a small, choked sound that might've sounded amused had it not been so clearly passing through a wave of appalled disgust over this entire bizarre situation. Bond could appreciate the hint of dark humor there, though; it'd been an awfully long time since anyone had accused him of being a virgin in the sexual sense or in the art of killing. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

Taking a fluid step to close the distance between them, James pressed his lips close enough to the boy's ear where they would just brush against it while he spoke. "I am a retired soldier from a very elite special operative unit. I have killed far more men and women than you've seen in years, boy, and in more ways than any of your specialists have experienced combined. I don't know my poison because I don't  _have_ one outside of the relish of the kill, and it's been far too many years since I've been allowed to cater to that particular thrill. If you'll give me a chance to prove it - and trust me when I say I can definitely afford it - I will know so _many_ things to do to you that it will make all your other suitors seem like teenagers holding placid dicks in their hands."

A slight shudder passed through the young man's frame before he pulled back a little, gauging the sincerity in Bond's eyes and finding nothing there but the honest truth. 

"I guess I can make an exception to my rule," he teased. "Just this once. I'm a sucker for military types."

With that, he gently wrapped his fingers around Bond's wrist and lead the way towards one of the many doors that lined the walls of the lounge, bringing them into a suite that was almost as impressive as the one Bond was currently staying in. He wondered if all the rooms in this underground club were designed this way, and if so, where they had gotten all the funds to create such an extravagant setting. Even with the type of clientele they catered to, it would've taken years to cover the expenses in building a scene such a this, possibly more years than Augments were even known to have been in existence. Whoever the proprietor of the club was had to be somebody with a lot of money, someone who knew exactly how and where to spend it in order to make a return profit from the venture. This - the boy who was softly closing the door behind him and tapping a button on the wall that likely triggered that light outside in the main lounge - this was the key to keeping the club afloat.

"Phoenix, was it?" Bond asked, glancing around the room with a casual-but-curious grace as he deftly undid the buttons of his suit jacket.

"Fox," the lad corrected. "We're all a Phoenix in this wing."

"Your full performer name sounds a bit like a bred dog's," James joked in good nature.

Fox chuckled at that. "We're named based on what we specialize in. I'll do anything and everything, so it's literally your pick of poison with me."

"And the foxy part?"

The boy stepped forward with a subtle leer, head tilted down slightly so he could look up at Bond with a suggestive gaze. "Isn't that part obvious?"

James turned away from him and carefully laid his folded jacket over the back of a chair. "Something tells me the moniker might refer to your wit more than it does your looks." He glanced back at his specialist, letting his eyes rove up and down the fitted mesh and leather for a moment. "Though I can certainly appreciate the aesthetic." Then, switching tactics just as quickly as Q had done those weeks ago in the suit, he sucked in a breath and forged ahead. "So tell me, how does all this work?"

"Straight to it, then," Fox smirked. "Okay. Well, basically you get to call all the shots. If you want to role play a scenario, just tell me who to be and I'll get in character. If you want to jump right to the killing, that's fine, too. There's a walk-in closet over there with different outfits for you, if you want, from fancy suits to crazy cowboy stuff, or just plain plastic wear if you're going serial-killer style. Everything's arranged by size, so you shouldn't have a problem finding what'll work for you. There's another closet for me, too, if you want me in anything specific. As far as where and how the death happens, first you should know that the room is totally soundproof, so don't get nervous about what anyone else might hear. Stray bullets aren't going to go through the walls, either, so if you want to go that route and you have crappy aim, you're not going to hit any civies on the outside...but I guess you probably don't have to worry about that, being a trained soldier and everything."

"The least of my concerns," Bond agreed with a quick smile that he somehow kept from appearing bitter.

"Cool. So anyway, pick your clothes, pick the scenario, pick the place - on the bed, the floor, strapped to a chair, maybe in the shower, against a kitchen counter if you want, there's a little room through that door over there that's designed to look like a tool shed sorta-deal, if a more rugged scene is your style. And behind that door over there," he pointed to one painted all in black, the only thing that really looked out of place in what Bond was dubbing the designated murder suite, "that's where you're going to find all your toys. Guns, knives, spears, ropes, cuffs, gutting hooks, there's a chainsaw if you want to give that a whirl, hot pokers, even a few medieval torture devices if you want to get messy in a historical way."

Q hissed something angry and highly inappropriate in Bond's ear, a sentiment that 007 agreed with and was happy to hear when he, himself, couldn't voice it at the moment.

"Thorough," he hummed instead, then looked at Fox in a manner that showed how serious he was about his next question. "And you will allow any of that? There's nothing you'll say no to?"

"Oh, no, there's rules," Fox was quick to correct. Rules. At least there was  _something_ to keep this absurd fetish under some manner of control. "Deathless can handle a lot, but it doesn't mean we're immortal. And it doesn't mean we don't scar."

The boy lifted a portion of his mesh shirt, revealing a flesh tapestry of criss-crossing marks that literally covered his torso, scars angled over scars angled over more scars, each of which formed from the types of mortal wounds that not even a Deathless could come out of unscathed. To have that many in such a short span of life...not even Bond, in all his reckless ways, could claim half as many scars, and just the memory of each one still hurt at times. The thought of living through as many as this boy had, and  _welcoming_ them - he couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"So nothing above the neck," Fox continued his explanation like a theme park attendant going over the rules of a ride. "We have to stay pretty for the clients. That includes beheadings, just to clarify. Not that I know anyone who's had their head cut off, but I don't exactly want to be the guinea pig to find out whether or not that's something a Deathless can bounce back from. I'm kind of betting it's not. Oh, but if you want to throw me against a wall or table or bedpost or anything and I take some damage to the back of the head, that's fine. Just don't bash it in too much. It's hard to come back from a good brain-rattle."

Bond swallowed thickly. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. If you're a chainsaw or machete type of guy, we aren't going full hacking-into-pieces mode. That'll probably also kill me for real. Maybe. Again, not too keen on finding out. You can take appendages, but you need to leave them intact. They heal a lot faster if someone can sew them back on right away. If you're into the gutting thing, you can open me up, let things spill wherever, squeeze, tug, maybe do a little cutting, but we're not playing operation here. You dive in and just start ripping shit out, you're going to have an actual murder felony over your head. None of us want that, so keep it under control."

"Control, my arse," Q murmured in Bond's ear, his tone dripping with hate for this entire conversation. "How can he possibly be so casual about all of this?"

James ignored him, doing his best to smoothly pull out the answer to that very question without tipping off his specialist to the fact that he was hating every part of this just as much as his Quartermaster was.

"What about the pain?" he asked. "Even a Deathless must go into shock at some point."

Again, Fox gave him a carefree shrug as if everything about his chosen form of employ was perfectly normal. "Like I said, you call the shots. If you want it to be natural, it stays natural. I feel everything, and you get to experience every part my death as if it were a real one - the only thing I take beforehand is a power inhibitor that'll slow down my healing enough to die like a normal person before my abilities kick in. If seeing me in pain bothers you, I have a few other things in my closet I can take - basic painkillers, full body numbing agents, paralysis drugs - some work faster than others, so you'll have to tell me what you want. And if you want to watch me OD on something, I can swing that, too. I have a guy who likes to sit me in a chair and just listen in on a stethoscope while I take poppers until my heart blows. Not a bad way to go."

Bond narrowed his eyes. "But not exactly a regular thing for you, either. Judging by your appearance, you don't strike me as an addict."

"I take that as a compliment," Fox smiled. "I'm not, but I do what the handler wants - that's you, by the way. Most people frown at being called a client. It makes it seem like they're less in control of the scenario. A handler can handle his specialist any way he wants, though."

"I see that." James frowned, not able to keep any sort of fake smile on his face any longer. "Tell me, Fox, what's the appeal in this for you? If it isn't the drugs, then why put yourself through this? Is the money really worth the pain? The risk to your life?"

"And  _this_ is why I don't do virgins," Fox sighed, crossing his arms over his chest with clear annoyance. His whole demeanor changed as he shifted into what seemed like a tired speech to him, one he clearly was not enthused about repeating. "Look, I can stand here and give you a thousand different excuses that might make sense to you - I need the money to get through college, or pay off my family's debt, or start a new life somewhere in Buttfuckazania - but that'll only wind up with you lecturing me on how there are better ways to make money. Or I could pretend to be the drugged-out loser that can't get out of the biz because he's afraid of losing his fix, after which you'll try to tell me there are programs that can help me get clean - blah, blah, blah. Whatever. The truth is, mister, I don't care about any of that. With the money I make here, I bought a little house uptown, filled it with normal people shit, I hit the bars every blue moon with my crew, sometimes take a vacation wherever because I can, but most of what I get from working this joint just sits in an account, building interest. I donate to charity every year for Christmas to make me feel good about myself. I don't do this for the money and I could care less about the drugs. I do it because I  _like_ it. I'm into it. I get off on it, on knowing that I'm one of the few people on the planet who can legitimately cheat death. Plus, if I let people do what they want to me in here, it means they aren't doing it to someone else out there, in the real world, where people actually die. I'm doing my part in keeping those people safe. So there's my answer. Now are we doing this or what? If not, the back door's right there. It'll put you in another holding area where you can either pick a different curtain or head back to the lounge. Your choice."

Bond was quiet for a moment, trying his best to analyze the scolding he'd just received. If the kid was lying, he was as good at it as any of MI6's best agents, but whereas 007 couldn't quite detect a lie, he could most definitely grab hold of the strongest truth - based on how passionate he'd become near the end of his little tirade, it seemed Fox's main reason for doing this was simply so that other people wouldn't have to. He died every night in the hopes that it would allow others to live, playing the victim in place of a person who couldn't afford to be one. He was serving the same purpose as Bond, essentially - to keep people safe, just as he'd said - just in a different way, a way that only someone like him could. Why the other workers did what they did there, James may not ever get the answer to, but this one, at least, was doing it for the only reason that Bond could deem admirable, and he could respect the boy enough to show him as much.

"What's your preference?" 007 asked quietly.

"James, you can't possibly-" Q started in, but Bond reached up to his ear to shut off his comlink with an absent, idle movement as if he were simply rubbing at a mild irritation. This was something Q would understand once James had a chance to explain it to him, but right then, in that moment, when he couldn't be there to see the look in Fox's eyes, a desperation that subtly screamed, _Take me, you bastard, so you don't hurt anybody else_ _!,_ what Bond was about to do would be unacceptable in Q's mind. 007 understood, though. If he walked out right then after having whispered what he had to the boy in the lobby, Fox would have a sleepless night, possibly several, all the while wondering if someone else, an innocent, might eventually fall victim to the hands of an ex-soldier addicted to death. Fox didn't do this for the clients or the money or the drugs. He did it for the innocents, and he did it for himself.

Fox cocked his head at him. "I already told you, you call the shots."

"And that's exactly what I'm doing. I don't know about your other handlers, and frankly I could care less about what they do, but I prefer to be a generous lover. What pleases you, pleases me. So tell me, if you could choose any way for me to kill you, what would be your preference?"

"I..." the specialist looked around the room for a moment, suddenly lost in his own environment, his eyes eventually locking onto the black door as if he could see right through it. After some deep thought, he turned to James, and in a quiet, almost timid voice, asked, "How much time do you have?"

~~~~~~~~~

"James, come in with me," Q pleaded softly as he watched James shiver in the now-cold water of the shower. He'd been standing there for ages, head bowed, saying nothing while Q's holographic form stood in the water beside him, just as naked but unable to feel the water on his skin nor offer any touches of comfort to his lover. "I can hold you there."

"Like I held him?" James growled with disgust at himself. He shut off the water with a slammed palm on the lever and shoved the glass door open nearly hard enough to break it. "I don't deserve it."

"You gave him what he wanted, Bond. What more could you have done?"

 _"Anything!"_ he spat with vicious venom. "He's just a confused kid, punishing himself for something that wasn't his fault."

"You don't know that." Q sighed. "And he's a consenting adult."

"Not old enough to understand why he's consenting to it."

This was going nowhere. Bond was in a complete fit, and understandably so. If Q could just convince him to go virtual, to enter into the Technopath's realm where they could feel the sensations of touch, then it might be possible to at least calm him down a bit. The agent wasn't having it, though. He was simply too wound up over the one death he'd administered in his life that hadn't resulted in an actual death.

A gunshot wound, apparently. Bond admitted that when he'd asked about the death, he thought the boy would choose something quick and painless, a snapped neck or something similar that left no mess and that he would heal from quickly enough. Fox hadn't, though. He had quietly, mechanically, and shakily went first to the handler's closet to select an outfit for Bond - nothing fancy, just a simple t-shirt and grey hoodie, jeans, brown work boots, and a baseball cap - a persona Bond was assigned to play. While the agent changed, Fox went into the "toy closet" and emerged with just hand gun, a 9mm Glock that he'd set on the table while he injected himself with whatever it was that the club used as a power inhibitor. 

"Here, and here," he'd said softly, pointing to areas on his abdomen that he wanted Bond to aim at. "I know bullets do whatever they want, but if you can help it, try not to hit an artery."

007 clenched his jaw at that. "How long will your inhibitor stay active?"

"Two hours. If it's not enough, you'll have to inject me with more. I don't think I'll be able to after you put me down."

It wasn't enough. Two shots, not striking anything vital enough to kill the boy quickly, but doing more than enough damage to put him in utter agony for the length of time it took him to "die." With two tiny pieces of metal lodged in the mess of his torn-up intestinal track, everything inside him burned enough to make him writhe and scream and cry and vomit until he didn't have the strength to do much of any of those things anymore. When he'd endured two hours of that (with Bond sitting in a nearby chair to watch just as Fox had instructed), and felt his body trying to push the metal out from where it didn't belong, he begged Bond to inject the inhibitor again despite the pain. Because it wasn't done. _He_ wasn't done. He hadn't suffered enough yet in his mind's eye.

And 007 had complied, understanding with full clarity what the boy was doing. This was personal, an experience he wanted to know, believed he deserved, a death that someone he cared about most likely had fallen to, quite possibly because of something Fox had done. He'd needed to know the fear and the agony of this demise, wanted to burn it into his psyche as much as those bullets were searing the inside of his gut.

"Let go, Fox," Bond had whispered after another hour had passed, another hour in which the boy still clung to life even knowing that he wouldn't actually die. It was too much, and the agent nearly considered putting another bullet in him that would end everything faster. He didn't though, just sat on the floor by the young man's side, pushing sweat-damp hair back from his forehead as he shivered and jerked in shock, letting out tiny moans until eventually his eyes slipped shut and his breathing grew ever-ragged, coming to a stuttering stop in the end in time with his equally-stuttering heart.

Bond had sat in an emotionally numb state of shock of his own for the entire next hour it took before the boy regained consciousness.

"You were supposed to leave," was the first thing Fox had croaked out when he came to, apparently surprised to see Bond exactly where he last saw him, kneeling beside him on the floor. 

"You didn't tell me that," James informed him softly.

"Don't usually have to."

Fox attempted to sit up, failed miserably, and settled on rolling himself over with Bond's help, leaning up on his elbows a bit as his body pushed the bullets back out the front from where they'd come. 007 knew that pain, too, and braced the boy through the process until he collapsed in the agent's arms where James continued to hold him as his Deathless powers did their job of piecing him back together.

"You're not really a killer, are you?" the specialist asked him then, utterly exhausted from both the hours of dying and the drain of living. 

Bond's expression hardened at that. "It's everything that I am."

Fox shook his head. "No. You kill. That much is obvious. But you're not a killer."

He'd instructed Bond to exit out the back at that point, assuring him that the staff would come take care of him and clear the room as soon as he passed through the door that lead back to the lounge. Beyond that he shifted back to professional specialist, telling him to come back soon, he hoped the experience was enjoyable, and all other scripted things that he didn't usually have to say because usually the ones who killed him didn't stick around for him to come back from the dead. That was the point, after all, to enjoy the act of murder without feeling the guilt, knowing they could come back and do it again any time. Seeing the victim physically wake up again shattered the illusion of the kill, though, at least while the handler was still in their moment of murder-euphoria.

The very thought of it was sickening, and Bond was still reeling over that nausea even now, safe in the confines of his hotel suite.

"I need to go back," he declared suddenly while Q was still trying and failing to convince him to go virtual with him.

"To do what, Bond? Kill him again?" Q huffed, trying to snap his partner back into a logical line of thought.

James turned a glare on him that might've seemed threatening if he weren't just a hologram at the moment, merely pretending to exist in 007's space. Still, it stung, even from half a world away. He didn't think he'd ever seen James look at him that way, with so much hatred in his eyes, even if he knew that hatred wasn't really meant to be directed at him.

On the positive side, whatever hurt look he'd accidentally worn on his face was apparently the trigger to finally get Bond to snap out of his rage. His expression softened instantly, and something of an apologetic whine reverberated in his throat as he walked towards the image of Q as if moving to wrap it in a hug. "I'm sorry, love," he murmured, seeming lost as he tried to figure out what to do with his hands. "I'm sorry. I just...can't sit back and do nothing while those children hurt themselves like that. I can't."

Q didn't bother correcting Bond for his insistence on referring to the specialists as children, just ghosted his hand along his partner's face in the illusion of a caress as if he could actually feel the warmth of his partner's cheek. "Come see me, James, please," he tried one more time. "Let me touch you."

And this time, thank god, James listened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, almost can't wait for the next chapter 'cause I love playing in VR worlds! It's a Shadowrun thing. The table top game, not the video game. Going into the Matrix in Shadowrun is about the most fun thing ever invented! And now I get to put Q and Bond all up in thar... *rubs hands together with glee*
> 
> Also, for the rest of my American fans, Q was giving the temp in C, obviously. 22 degrees is almost 72 in F.
> 
> And, I live in Los Angeles. I love LA. I know Bond hates it, but I really do love it for a myriad of reasons. It is true, however, that traffic is terrible here, Californians can't drive as a rule, and everybody does have an agenda or a sense of entitlement because a good deal of the people are either in or trying to be in the entertainment industry. It really is all about who you know, so you have to be friendly with everybody just in case they know someone who knows someone who could make it or break it for you in the biz, so it's hard to find people who you can trust as actually a friend, and it's hard to bite your tongue when dealing with the "entitled" jerks who assume they can walk all over anybody. Bond has a right to be irritable in this city, lol.


End file.
